Movie Madness
by PADavis
Summary: E/O Challenge – Dry. Special PADavis Self-Indulgent Wrote Myself a Birthday Fic Edition. Thank all of you for the lovely birthday drabbles. This is a whole lot more than 100 words. Dean is delirious. No spoilers. Rated T for language.


E/O Challenge – Special PADavis 'Self-Indulgent Wrote Myself a Birthday Fic' Edition

Word is Dry

Word Count: La la la la, not looking

A/N: I loved everyone's drabbles for my birthday. I might have missed a few—if I haven't reviewed yours, drop me a line so I can read it. The very first thing I thought of for Dry resulted in this, and I present it to you all now, on my actual birthday, as a huge Thank You!

A/N 2: This is a totally unauthorized abuse of the word count. Gosh darn it, I'm going to do it just this once. So it's not a drabble, it's a one shot, but the word is in there.

Summary: Dean is delirious. **No spoilers.**

Disclaimer: For fun, not for filthy lucre.

* * *

"We can't afford to let one of those bastards in here."

"What? Dean—are you awake?"

"Hey, maybe you haven't been keeping up on current events, but we just got our asses kicked." The inflection was flat, the voice worn and rough.

Sam hovered over the bed for a moment. "No, we didn't. We kicked their scaly asses, remember?" He ghosted a hand over Dean's forehead. "You were poisoned. You have a really high fever."

"Yeah, man, but it's a dry heat."

They knew what they were going up against on the hunt. Dad's journal had a couple of cryptic notes and symbols about the fuglies and thankfully a recipe for a 'cure' for their poison. They'd prepared for the job, going so far as to gather the supplies for the cure just in case. Dean inspected the ingredients and opined that they'd better not get bitten because neither one of them would be willing to drink it.

The _smell_ of the stuff cooking almost choked them both of them out of the room before Sam bounded out to the parking lot, the pot at arm's length, trailing foul smelling steam and smoke behind him. Dean managed a grin and a laugh—right before he collapsed, writhing, muscles seizing so badly he was jerking himself off the floor. And screaming, a hoarse scream through gritted teeth.

And now Sam had been forcing that stuff into Dean for forty-eight hours. And watching the attacks and waiting. Waiting for a change, an improvement, a something. Anything. Because Dad's journal didn't say how long it would take the cure to work, or what sign might mean it was getting better, and right now, he sure needed a sign.

"What the hell are we supposed to use, man? Harsh language?" It was whisper soft and flat.

"What are you talking about? We got them, Dean. They aren't coming back."

Dean's eyes rolled under puffy lids. "Maybe we got 'em demoralized." His hands were starting to twitch. Sam scrubbed his face and checked the room clock. Fuck. Another attack. It was only two hours since the last one. They were coming faster.

In the hours between, Dean was totally out, rag doll limp, unresponsive when Sam cleaned the bite, and unresponsive even when Sam pulled up his eyelids and aimed a pen light at his pupils. When the attack came, at the worst part, it looked like waves rolling up and down Dean's body, muscles bunching and jumping spastically from his toes to his scalp. And of course, that _would_ be the time when Dean would wake up, vague and slow, aware enough to realize he couldn't control his movements. He would yell in frustration and anger and pain.

And fear, damn it, Dean was _scared_ behind those unfocused eyes, teeth chattering so badly that Sam had to push a strip of leather between his jaws, Dean's arms and legs jerking faster and faster until everything seized up, and he went stiff as a board, unable even to breath for agonizing seconds, before collapsing again into unconsciousness.

If Dean was talking, Sam needed to get fluids and more of the cure into his brother now before this attack ramped up. He hoped Dean wouldn't remember getting them out of a Jar Jar Binks sippy cup. Sam smiled to himself. Okay, that part Dean could remember. After all, they were the only kind the dollar store had in stock. At least, Sam'd stopped looking when he found them and dashed for the register, hauling ass to get back to Dean before he had another attack. Before he woke up and found himself tied to the bed, a move of utter desperation on Sam's part, but Sam had to get supplies and he wanted, he needed Dean safe _on_ the bed, not jittered off onto the floor or into the furniture.

Sam went to the kitchen and brought a cup of the vile smelling cure and a cup of purple Gatorade and set them on the bedside table.

"Dean, are you awake?" He pulled Dean up by the shoulders and slipped in behind him, settling against the headboard before letting his brother lean back against his chest, head rolling against his sternum. He wrapped one arm around Dean's chest and biceps, wincing at the heat baking off his body. The spasms were starting in his legs. "Dean, I need you to wake up and take this." He held up the sippy cup and tipped some of the cure into Dean's mouth.

Dean sputtered and coughed, trying to push the potion away but Sam was holding his arms tightly down. When Dean opened his mouth to protest, or breathe, or curse, Sam tipped in the rest. He dropped the cup and brought his free hand up to hold Dean's jaw closed. "Swallow, man, swallow it now."

Dean did, gagging and gulping air. Glassy eyes cracked open. "Every meal's a banquet."

Sam had to lean forward to hear him. "What did you say?" He held up the cup of Gatorade and helped Dean sip that. "Dean, what?"

He coughed on a sip, sent down the wrong way by an uncontrolled jerk of his head, before whispering, "Another glorious day in the Corps. A day in the Marine Corps is like a day on the farm. Every meal's a banquet. Every paycheck a fortune. Every formation a parade. I love the Corps."

"You do? That sounds kinda familiar, but I don't ever remember Dad saying that."

"Apone." Dean suddenly bucked, fists pummeling the mattress, legs and feet twisting, head jerking back and forth into Sam's chest. "They're coming outta the walls. They're coming outta the goddamn walls." His eyes were tracking invisible foes.

Sam loosened one arm and pulled a pillow underneath Dean's head. His chest was already a mass of bruises. "Dean, it's the poison. There's nothing here. You're safe. We got them, we got them."

"No, no, no. Let's just bug out and call it even, OK? What are we talking about this for?"

"Hush, Dean. Just hush. I've got you." It looked like electric shocks coursing up and down his body, skin twitching and flinching, muscles cramping and standing out in cords up and down his arms and legs. Sam held on with both arms now, and wrapped both legs around his brother's torso and legs, but the spasms were so bad the bed was rattling against the floor, the headboard knocking the wall behind him.

Dean started to keen, softly, humming from the back of his throat, his breath hitching and breaking as he shook from side to side.

The noise brought tears to Sam's eyes. All he could do was hold on and try to cushion his brother. It seemed to help before and he could only hope it would help now. He leaned down, hoping to pin Dean's thrashing head between his own head and the pillow, but Dean's neck muscles bunched, twisting his head and popping Sam right in the mouth.

It seemed to last forever, and certainly must have been for Dean, but by the room clock it was only another two minutes before Dean went rigid, his breath whistling over clenched teeth until even that sound was cut off by seized muscles.

Sam counted as he always did, one, two, three, four, waiting for Dean's breathing to jump start again, five, six, seven, eight, and goddamn it, Dean, breathe, nine, teneleventwelve, and this time he said it out loud, "Dean—breathe! Breathe right now!" And it was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and he was begging now, "Dean, please, breathe. Breathe!"… sixteen, seventeen…

Dean went limp, breath exhaled with a sigh, followed by an audible inhale.

Sam unwrapped himself from around his brother, but didn't move for a few minutes, just listened to Dean breathe slow and regular against his chest. He'd be out now until the next attack, and god that was how many by now? Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a minute.

* * *

He woke with a start. It was quiet and dark in the room, his brother a warm weight against him, still and relaxed and breathing easily. This didn't make sense. How could it be dark? He would have had to sleep for… rolling his head to check the room clock, _seven_ hours? Dean hadn't had an attack in seven hours?

Sam couldn't help it. He started to laugh and had almost brought it under control when he realized that his laughing was making Dean's head bob up and down against his chest, and that set him off again, laughing until tears ran down his checks and he wasn't sure anymore if he was laughing or crying.

He had to get out from under his brother and settle him back against the pillows before he could finally stop. The box of tissues was long gone; instead, he brought up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face and eyes. His wet shirt?

Turning on the room light, he took a good look at Dean. He was sweating. His fever must have broken. Sam grabbed the thermometer and gently put it in Dean's ear, chewing his lip until it beeped. One oh one, down from the one oh scary that morning. Dean didn't react, nor move when Sam wiped down his face and arms with a cool cloth, running it through his short hair and over his scalp. Sam tugged off Dean's soaked teeshirt, and wiped down his chest and back, before hoisting him up with a grunt, and settling him on the other bed to lie on fresh sheets and a towel draped pillow.

He stood for a minute, perplexed. This was different, it had to be. He picked up the pen light and pulled open Dean's right eye. This time his pupil reacted. And so did Dean, groaning a little and rolling his head. Sam held his breath and watched Dean's hands for tremors. Nothing. He breathed out and when he looked up, hazy eyes were looking back at him.

"Hey, Dean. How are you feeling?" Dean opened his mouth, but didn't speak. "Hang on. I'll get you something to drink." He grabbed the Gatorade cup, took five long strides to the minifridge and filled it. He sat on the edge of the bed, and cupped Dean's head with one hand. "I'm going to bring your head up." Dean drank most of the cup before closing his eyes. "Dean? Are you alright?"

His eyes opened again. "Frosty." It was breathy and soft, but clear.

"Good. I think." Sam stood and stretched, hands brushing the ceiling. "Are you going to be OK while I take a shower? Do you need anything?"

Dean blinked a few times and quirked up one side of his mouth. "Stop your grinnin' and drop your linen."

"What? Are you quoting something?"

But Dean had gone back to sleep.

The shower was quick, and he only ran out of the bathroom one time while he was shaving to check a noise. He dried off in the main room just to keep an eye on his brother. Once he'd stripped Dean's sick bed and remade it with fresh sheets, he started a pot of coffee and sat down with Dad's journal. He uncapped his fine point pen and wrote, 'Fever, seizures, dosed w/cure every 4 hrs. Abated after 48.' Then tapped the pen against his teeth for a minute, and added, 'Cure disgusting. Make outside.'

He caught himself staring at his brother. Dean'd said, "It's a dry heat." Sam's eyebrows went up. "Oh." Powering up the laptop, he opened IMDb and found exactly what he was looking for. Sure enough. They both loved that movie. He just didn't know his brother had the damn thing memorized.

The monsters they had fought didn't have huge domed heads, or an extra set of teeth, or acid for saliva, but they had moved with unearthly and disconcertingly fluid grace, flowing along the floor and walls of the warehouse as if gravity didn't affect them. The one that bit Dean's arm had been hanging upside down in a space clearly too small for it to fit. But it had. He'd need to add another note in the journal about that.

Pushing back from the desk, Sam put some soup in the microwave, and pulled out a pack of Saltines. He brought that and refilled the Gatorade cup before sitting on the edge of the bed again. "Dean. Wake up." He pulled Dean forward and this time tucked pillows behind him, propping him up until he was almost sitting.

Dean muttered and cracked his eyes open. "Huh?"

"You've got to eat. And then I'm going to get you into the john, and then I'll let you go back to sleep. You have to take some medicine too."

"Not that crap again."

"I'm thinking painkillers and muscle relaxants. You've probably got cramps."

"Could I have those before the soup?"

Sam dropped a couple of pills into Dean's open palm.

Dean's eyes tracked down. "Sam. I, uh, I can't."

"You can't what?"

"I can't move my arm."

"Oh, sorry. I should have thought of that. You had a hell of a workout, man. Open your mouth. At least that's working." Dean turned a bright red, but let Sam drop the pills in his mouth, and hold the cup up while he swallowed. Sam turned to set the cup on the bedside table and pick up the soup.

"I'm going to have to feed you."

Dean shook his head, or tried to. "Nuh-uh. I'll eat tomorrow when I can move."

"You haven't eaten for over 50 hours. It's chicken soup and saltines. Come on." Sam held a spoonful under Dean's nose and tried not to grin when they both heard his stomach rumble. "I don't want to force you but that noise will keep me awake."

Dean opened his mouth and took the soup. "We will not speak of this again." Sam tipped in another spoonful. "Is that chicken and stars?"

He nodded. "Cures what ails you."

Dean thoughtfully chewed a cracker. "That cure stuff tasted like ass."

"I wasn't sure how much you'd remember."

"All of it. But right at the end, it got really weird. Thought I was in a movie." He finished the soup and crackers, and yawned. "Man, I just woke up."

"Trip to the head, and you can go back to sleep."

That got another blush out of Dean, but they discovered that he could put a little weight on his feet, even though he hissed in pain when he tried to walk. He let out a huge sigh of relief when Sam lowered him back down on the bed and removed the extra pillows so he could lie flat.

"You still thirsty?" Sam held up the sippy cup and waggled it back and forth.

"The hell? Jar Jar Binks? You know I hate him."

Sam laughed out loud. "Oh yeah, the ultimate badass drank out of Star Wars sippy cup."

Dean grinned sleepily. "State of the badass art! At least I didn't think I was in _that_ movie. Leia's mom had nothing on Sigourney Weaver. Ripley was smokin' hot."

"Will the TV bother you if I turn it on?"

"Nothing will. Going back to sleep." He sighed and closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure."

Sam grinned. "Fuckin' A!"

_______________

A/N 3: Every line Dean speaks until he says "Huh?", and several lines from them both afterwards, are direct quotes from the movie _Aliens_, written by Dan O'Bannon and Ronald Shusett. The line that inspired this fic is one I quote to this day. "Yeah, man, but it's a _dry_ heat." My other favorite is "They can BILL me."


End file.
